


tell me a part of your story (that you've never said out loud)

by ohmygodwhy



Series: come doused in mud, soaked in bleach [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Organized Crime, this one is more direct w the abuse so pls be careful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 05:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8274178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygodwhy/pseuds/ohmygodwhy
Summary: Bucky read this book once, when he was younger—eight, maybe nine, sometime before he turned ten—about a boy who was raised by ghosts in a graveyard.(or: bucky reads a lot, gets picked up by a man with a godawful mustache, and some more bad things happen)





	

**Author's Note:**

> alternate title for this fic: I'm Back Again With Gratuitous Literary References And More Hurt
> 
> ???? here i am w/ more of this train wreck lmao
> 
> this one is more direct w/ the abuse and slight character death, and although it's not graphic, pls do read the tags & be careful

 

 

Bucky read this book once, when he was younger—eight, maybe nine, sometime before he turned ten—about a boy who was raised by ghosts in a graveyard. More accurately, his mama read it to him, because that was the kind of thing she did—no matter how tired she was from long shifts at work or his stepdad getting up in her face, she would find time to read to him and Becca before they went to bed. 

And one time, she read them that book, the one where the boy was raised by ghosts in a graveyard. He was raised by ghosts because a bad man killed his family, and was going to kill him too, but the boy wandered into that graveyard on a hill, and the ghosts protected him. 

The man came back and tried to kill the boy again when he got older, but this time the boy was strong enough to protect himself. 

When Bucky is ten, after his stepdad walked out on them and they got evicted, a bad man pulls a knife on his mama and demands she give him money, all your money, anything you have. Mama doesn’t have any money, Becca tries to defend her, and the bad man uses that knife, like the man from the story.

(Later, when he’s older, Bucky will wonder if it was a knife or if it was a gun—he remembers a silver gleam and bad man’s dark brown eyes, but he doesn’t know if it was a knife or if it was a gun. Dugan tells him that when you go through something really bad like that, sometimes your brain blocks parts of it out, like it’s protecting itself. He isn’t sure if he really believes that, because why would his brain take away the weapon but leave all the red?)

Unlike the boy from the story, there’s no place for Bucky to run and hide, and the man doesn’t seem to intent on finishing the job either—he looks down at the two women at his feet, and then at Bucky, like he can’t believe his eyes, and then he runs, leaves Bucky crying in that godforsaken alleyway and never comes back. 

(When he’s older, maybe Bucky wishes he did, because like the boy in the story, he’s strong enough to protect himself now.) 

Unlike the boy from the story, there is no graveyard for him to go back to, and no one he would have waiting for him there, because the two people who _would_ be waiting for him are stained red and unmoving (or maybe they would be there, because graveyards are made for ghosts and they’re gone now, they’re—they’re dead now, but they’ll never be buried in no graveyard because they died poor and homeless in a New York alley). 

He stays with them for two days, because he’s cold and tired and scared and doesn’t know where he is or where to go, but he has to leave eventually because he doesn’t think he could stand the sight of watching them turn to bone. 

 

The first thing Dugan does the next morning, the morning after he Finds Out, is try to march right up to the Secretary’s office and deck him in the face.

Bucky doesn’t let him, grabs his arm and pulls tight and says, “What are you gonna do, huh? Go hit Pierce?”

“I’m gonna tell Fury,” Dugan shoots back, still not looking at him, still trying to walk to his death.

“And what?” Bucky hisses, “You think he’s gonna fire him or something? He can’t _fire_ Pierce, no one can fire _Pierce_ —he’s the one who runs the damn place.” 

Dugan snarls, but stops pulling.

“You can’t do anything,” Bucky continues, because he knows, because he knows what the Secretary can do, he knows how many ways he could make Dugan disappear, “Don’t be stupid, Dum Dum.”

That finally gets him to glance back at him. He looks sad and angry and older than he’s ever seemed.

“So, what, you expect me to just sit around and do nothin’?”

Bucky shrugs helplessly, blinking frustrated tears out of his eyes, “There’s nothin’ you can do. He’s just—there’s nothin’.”

Dugan turns and grips his shoulders tight and looks him in the eye, “That bastard’s _hurting_ you, Bucky, he’s—“

“I _know,_ ” his voice cracks—he floods with shame because he sounds like a child and _you’re more than that aren’t you? you’re special, James, I knew from the first moment I saw you that you’d grow up well I knew,_ “I know.” he says again, “But what do you want me to do? I don’t know what you want me to do.” 

Dugan looks at him like he’s breaking his heart, “I don’t want you to do anything, kid. I just,” he cuts himself off, breathes like he’s holding something back, “I just want you to be safe. God, I—I brought you into this and I can’t even keep you safe.” 

Bucky wants to say: that’s not your job anymore, he wants to say: stop looking at me like that, he wants to say: you deserve more than me. He doesn’t say any of these things, because his heart is still lodged in his throat and he’s never talked about this before, never thought he would, hoped he never would. But now Dugan knows and he’s angry and sad and probably disgusted with him, and Bucky has no more words for him.

He wants to say: I tried to be strong I tried to be good I tried to be brave I’m sorry, but he doesn’t because he can’t and it feels like he’s the ghost now, trapped in a graveyard, he’s not the boy who leaves at the end and goes on to live his life. 

There are bad men who don’t need knives or guns to kill you and good men who can break you with a kiss to the temple. He doesn't know which is worse. 

 

When he’s eleven and it’s raining buckets outside, he finds a big metal warehouse thing on the edge of town near the docks. 

It’s a little hard to get in, because all the doors are locked, the complicated kind he can’t pick, but he manages to worm his way in through a narrow window, and it’s—it’s full of money. Big wads of dollar bills all packed up in crates, like one of those crime shows his stepdad used to watch all the time.

He’s surprised, and kind of appalled, because who the hell would leave this kind of money lying around in some old warehouse and forget about it? He’s never seen so much money in one place in his entire _life_. And he is pretty sure they’d forgotten about it, because some of the crates are dusty like they’ve been sitting here for a real long time. 

It was a real tragedy, this kinda money gong to waste, especially while there were people (like him) who could really use it, so he thought it wouldn’t be too bad if he took some of it. If the Rich People who left it here ever remembered the thousands of damn dollars they’d locked up in a warehouse instead of some bank like a normal person, they wouldn’t notice a few hundred missing, probably. 

He gets away with it for a good while, wiggling his way in every few weeks in the middle of the night and stuffing his ratty old backpack full. 

He must’ve been taking more than he thought, though, because one of the nights he’s jumping back out the window and there’s a man waiting for him—wearing this ridiculous bowl-looking hat and a dark brown jacket. 

His brain flashes back to those crime shows again, and what happens to people to steal from other bad people (?? he isn’t sure, but the mustache makes the guy seem like some kinda criminal type, and the way he’s leaning all casual-like against the wall makes him uneasy), and he runs. 

He’s fast, but the man is faster, corners him as he twists around the back of the building. 

Bucky stumbles to a stop and yanks the blunt kitchen knife he found in a dumpster out of his pocket, because he’s not the boy from the story anymore–and if he is, he’s reached the part of the story where he’s older and stronger and won’t take anyone’s shit anymore.

The mustache man doesn’t seem all that concerned about it, just peers down at him like he’s deciding what to do with him. Bucky thinks he’s probably going to die, back behind a warehouse instead of an alleyway. But then Mustache Man does something weird: he shakes his hand like he’s his equal, and takes him out to eat, and offers him a hotel room for the night—which okay, is kinda real shady and the guy might have just changed his mind about not killing him, but.

But his eyes are sincere and his mustache twitches when he smiles and there something about him that makes him wanna trust him real bad, and when he says “I won’t do nothin’,” (won’t hurt him won’t touch him won’t take nothin from him), he believes him.

And he doesn’t hurt him doesn’t touch him doesn’t take nothin from him, just lets him steal half of his breakfast and flip through the tv channels and order whatever he wants for lunch later. He makes jokes and tells him about livin on the streets of LA and takes him seriously. He’s almost the polar opposite of his stepdad. It’s incredible.

So when he explains what he does for a living, and how it all works, and offers him a place to stay, he.

He says yes.

 

When Bucky turns eighteen, everyone throws a big party. He tells them they didn’t have to, it’s too much, _god_ they’re embarrassing, but he’s actually pretty happy about it, if he’s being honest.

Nat ruffles his hair and smiles in that way she reserves just for him, and Dugan laughs when he tells him to stop calling him kid. Dernier sneaks him a cigarette and Monty sneaks him some strong ass British booze and Gabe gives him hardcover copies of an old Orson Scott Card book and the book with the graveyard boy, because he told him about it back when he was thirteen and Gabe understands these things.

After dinner, Steve pulls him into a shadowed corner and— _finally,_ he breathes—kisses him hard on the mouth.

“How long you been thinkin about that?” Bucky says when he pulls back.

Steve, the dopey bastard, just flushes and grins, “A while,” he admits.

Bucky grins back, because. Because he’s been waiting so damn long for this and never actually in a million years thought it would happen.

“About damn time,” he says. About damn time.

 

(When Bucky turns eighteen, Secretary Pierce calls him to his office.

“Happy birthday, James,” he says, and there is something off about the way he says it.

“Thank you, sir,” Bucky says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

The secretary smiles at him in a way that could be fatherly, if sharks could be fatherly. “You’ve been doing remarkably well in the field,” he says.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re a man now,” he says, and he looks him up and down and something in Bucky’s mind, muddled with strong ass British alcohol and the lingering feel of Steve’s kisses, yells at him. “I knew you were special, James, from the first moment I saw you,” and he is close he is too close he’s in his space in his air and—and—there is The Look in his eyes, and the part of Bucky’s brain that’s screaming knows how this will go.)

(He is drunk and he is dizzy and the secretary has a way of making it all seem like Bucky’s suggestion, Bucky’s idea, like he’s flirting and—you’re beautiful, Pierce says, have you done this before you’re so talented you’re so pretty and Bucky’s gonna throw up he’s gonna cry he’s gonna pass out and after, after, after it ends Pierce straightens his suit and gives him a bottle of some expensive aged wine rich people drink and sends him on his way.

He stumbles his way back down to the deck. Only Dugan and Jim are still awake, playing cards and smoking fancy cigarettes.

They look at him and take it his disheveled hair and rumpled clothes, and Morita leers widely.

“ _Someone_ got it on with Rogers, huh?” He says, laughing at the disapproving look on Dugan’s face.

Bucky doesn’t respond, just puts Pierce’s gift on the table and ignores Dugan’s surprised whistle.

“ _Damn_ , kid,” he says, “where the hell’d you get this?”

All Bucky can bring himself to do is shrug, vaguely, and mumble, “knock yourself out, Dum Dum, I’m going to bed.”

“Night, kid,” Dugan laughs, “happy birthday.”)

(Bucky doesn’t sleep.)

 

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Steve whispers, running a calloused finger along the curve of Bucky’s ear.

Bucky smiles lazily, willing away the smell of sweat and old man perfume, nuzzling into Steve’s hand instead. He likes being praised, likes knowing Steve _means_ it. He had reached the point where he wasn’t so sure he was capable of being looked at the way Steve looks at him. Wasn’t capable of being loved like this.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he murmurs back, warmth igniting in his chest at Steve’s quiet laugh. And it’s true: Steve is beautiful, all hard muscle and soft smiles and eyes that light up like the sun in the goddamn sky. 

And it’s a goddamn tragedy, Bucky thinks: someone like Steve winding up with someone like him, when he could do so so much better.

But he catches Steve lookin at him like he’s hung the stars in the sky, like he’s more than a ghost in that graveyard. It hurts too much to look at, most of the time, so he looks away, because if he doesn’t he thinks he might cry.

“Jerk,” Steve whispers fondly.

“Punk,” Bucky shoots back, and curls into his arms like he’s hiding.

 

Bucky kills for the first time when he’s sixteen years old.

It’s his fourth mission. Solo, this time.

Dugan was sick, and so Bucky had volunteered to take his place, do his usual job—cleaning up messes. Cleaning up threats. 

This time, it was a man who was using SHIELD’s name to traffic drugs—and then it was deeper than that, the man was under the control of HYRDA, the man was ready for him, the man pulled a knife? gun? knife on him and Bucky thinks of the graveyard and thinks about the alleyway and goes from defensive to offensive because he had to. He had to.

Either way, the mess was cleaned up.

Either way, when he gets back to HQ, he goes to Fury’s office for a quick debrief and then heads straight to Dugan’s suite (he doesn’t notice ’til he’s at the door but it’s whatever, it doesn’t matter).

Dugan glances up from his phone—fuckin’ candy crush, the loser—when Bucky opens the door.

“What’s up, kid?” He asks. 

Something must show in his face, because Dugan’s tossing his phone onto the bed and standing up with his big bear arms open wide. Bucky doesn’t even think about protesting, just lets himself fall into familiar arms and kinda just…collapse against him.

“What’s goin on, kid?” He asks in that soft soft voice he only uses on Bucky.

Bucky hums noncommittally, burying his head in Dugan’s shoulder. “Drug dude was with HYDRA. Was an ambush.”

Dugan pulls him back to look him up and down with that little concerned frown on his face that makes his mustache curl, “You okay? You get hurt at all?”

Bucky just shakes his head. “Other guy did.” He murmurs, “Had to—” he swallows, shutting his eyes to hold back whatever threatens to pour out of him, “Had to take care of him.”

Dugan breathes out slowly, and doesn’t say anything else, just lets Bucky fall against him again, and Bucky knows he understands. He always understands.

“How about some Law & Order?” He asks. Bucky smiles.

“You loser. Sure.”

 

When he turns twenty, Pierce gives him a fancy, perfectly tailored suit. He tells him he looks even prettier than usual, all dressed up and handsome.

(So nice so beautiful so good so pretty.)

When he turns twenty one, Pierce gives him a real expensive watch with golden goddamn watch hands, and a real large paycheck, and tells him to _take out that boyfriend of yours—Rogers, right? Go see a movie or something, eat a nice dinner, you both deserve it._

(You have such a pretty mouth, he says, no wonder you have Rogers falling all over himself for you.)

He gives him some of those fancy cigarettes Dugan loves and the leather jacket he was eyeing and pays for a few science and lit classes at the local community college.

When he has to interact with Rumlow (which is very rarely because he is almost universally hated because he’s a huge asshole who beat the shit out of him when he was sixteen so he stays as far away from him as possible), the bastard looks at him like he _knows._

Looks him up and down and sneers “nice _watch_ , floozy,” and Bucky pushes back the flood of denial and white hot shame and who the hell says _floozy_ and how the hell does he know and why hasn’t he done anything told anyone done anything?

“Fuck off,” he says.

Rumlow laughs, a harsh, ugly sound, “You didn’t deny it.” and then, “Does Rogers know?”

“Don’t talk about him.”

“Bet he wouldn’t be so eager to kiss you if he knew where your mouth’s been.”

“Shut up,” Bucky snarls, “Shut the hell up, jackass.”

Rumlow just looks him up and down again, smiles sharp and ugly, and walks off.

It takes five minutes for the roaring in Bucky’s ears to die down and even longer to push back the urge to vomit, because he’s right, he’s right, Steve would be disgusted would hate him would look at him the way his stepdad used to the way Rumlow does now.

Bucky blinks the hot tears out of his eyes.

The urge to throw up comes back.

 

When Bucky’s eight years old, maybe nine, sometime before ten, his mother read him a book about a boy who was raised by ghosts in a graveyard.

She also read him a book about a man who loved a women so much he was willing to give everything to her, and then died alone in a pool with barely anyone at his funeral. 

She reads him a book about a black and white world where jobs are chosen for you, where a single person was chosen to hold all of humanity’s memories to spare everyone else the pain of the knowledge of war and suffering. 

She reads him thirteen books about three kids who lose their parents and go through so much unfortunate shit it’s amazing they survive it all and end up on some island.

She reads him a series about children of the gods who save those gods more times than he can count and only get recognition at the very end.

She reads, changing her tone to do the different voices, all emotion and inflection, no matter how tired or battered she is.

She reads to him so much, but the one that sticks with him the longest is the boy raised by ghosts in the graveyard.

The boy leaves, eventually, because they are dead and he is not and he has an entire life to live. He grows up.

Bucky grows up, but he doesn’t leave. The difference, he thinks, is that they—Dugan and Steve and Nat and Wanda and the rest of this family—are alive, and he feels like he is dead.

He grows up, but when the bad man comes back again, he is not strong enough to stop him.

He is not the boy from the story. He’s not sure what he is anymore.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> (the main book i referenced was The Graveyard Book by Niel Gaiman which boy if you haven't read you rlly should read it shaped me as a person lmao
> 
> if ur interested, I also referenced The Great Gatsby bc im cliche, The Giver by Lois Lowry, The Series of Unfortunate Events by Lemony Snicket (also shaped me rip), and the Percy Jackson series bc I grew up w those books lmao)
> 
> one single comment can change a life save a life


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